It’s so, so loud, but I think she moans into my mouth, and I have to press my groin into the wall to check myself before I’m walking around campus with a boner over a simple kiss.
My other arm coils around her waist, and I can feel the moment coming to a close, but I greedily soak up every second.
Her lips are soft and she tastes like chocolate and whipped cream.
The lights flicker back on and Clover’s smile is glowing, her nose red, and white clouds of cold air mingle between us. “That was convincing, right?”
“Very,” I tell her, my voice hoarse.
CHAPTER 18
Clover
The Beverly Cleary Archival Library is the most iconic building on campus. Outside of the shrine of a football field (for a very mediocre team), the gratuitous pictures of both the men’s and women’s rowing teams, and the Bellcliff building with its clock tower and observatory, the library is the star of every Wexley pamphlet and the home page of the university’s website.
The carpets are a deep, rich red and each of the nine stories is open all the way to the glass dome roof at the center. On sunny days it showers the whole building in light, and on the rainy days it brings the moody Pacific Northwest weather inside without the threat of being cold and wet.
Each floor is bridged together with iron railings and dainty walkways that I find myself walking across while holding my breath. The building sits at the highest point on campus and the top floors stretch above the tree line, giving way to a view of the ocean on one side and mountains on the other.
I work three five-hour shifts every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from eight o’clock in the evening until one in the morning.
On Monday night, my shift manager, a grad student named Rashid, sits me down in front of a computer for a training seminar about harassment in the workplace. It’s dry but very straightforward, and only requires me to tap through each screen.
After I clock out, I make the trek back to my dorm and I suddenly hear someone rush up behind me. Before I have time to decide if I’m running or standing my ground, a heavy arm is slung over my shoulders.
The lamp lighting the path ahead casts a warm glow on Tate’s cheeks as he beams down at me. “I thought that was you! What are you doing right now? Where are you going? I’ve hardly seen you outside of class.”
I hold a hand over a tear-inducing yawn. “So many questions at once. I’m heading back to my dorm and yeah, I’ve been working a lot,” I tell him after the yawn passes.Also, I’m technically married and told my husband I wouldn’t date anyone until we’re divorced, even though you’re hot and nice.
“Come out with me. We’ve got some time before last call.”
“Okay, first, I can’t get into bars yet,” I tell him. “And second, it’s a Monday night. What are you doing on campus this late at night? You don’t live here, do you?”
“No to living on campus, and I was studying in the library. I remembered you saying you worked the first half of the overnight shift, so I stuck around for a while and looked for you. Started to wonder if you were just trying to throw me off your scent until I saw you walking out the main doors.”
Another yawn presses hard against my chest, and I partially swallow it back. “They had me doing a training tonight and I’m about to fall asleep on my feet.”
“Well, at least let me walk you home.”
He removes his arm from my shoulder and instead holds it out for me as he tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow. It feels wrong, especially when my brain does the inevitable and circles back to Midnight Yell with Bennett and how we spent the rainy weekend in bed watching movies in between studying sprints so I could cram for my financial-accounting test and finish my Intro to Professionalism essay. I only left once on Sunday morning to work a brunch and when I came back, Bennett was waiting for me right where I left him. The whole time I was gone, I felt restless with a pang in my chest. I need more space from him. Because every time I have some breathing room, I remember that he is only doing all this to absolve himself.
As we walk, Tate chatters about his friends, people I’ve never met who sound like they should probably hydrate more and have Breathalyzers in their cars.
“Clover Walsh, I guess I’ll let you flake this time, but on Saturday night”—he fishes around in the front pocket of his jeans and hands me a small square card. “You’re going to go to this address and show this.”
“What is this for? Some kind of clandestine cult gathering?” I can’t help but feel giddy. I have never been the girl who’s invited places. “Can I bring friends to the cult meeting?” Not that I really have any just yet. Well, except Daisy. And maybe Briar, but the jury’s out on that one.
“Girlfriends,” he says with a wink.
I roll my eyes. “You’re a dog.”
He flashes a crooked grin and hooks a finger under my chin, tilting my face up to his. “I make no apologies. Woof, woof.”
My stomach swoops and I’m suddenly a little breathless. Under the weight of his attention, I simply nod.
On Thursday morning, just as I’ve mustered up the courage to knock at Briar and Daisy’s room, the door swings open and Daisy jumps back, her hair wrapped around a silk foam curling rod and mouth tape shaped like lips firmly in place. “Mm-hmm!” She rolls her eyes and then peels back the tape. “Sorry, forgot about the tape. What I meant to say was: Oh hi!”
“Hi.” I wave, and I can feel myself retreating already. She’s been nice to me, and we sort of bonded the other week in the laundry room, but are we actually friends?
